


One of Those Days

by Megane



Category: Grey Is... (Webcomic)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Emotionally Repressed, Hallucinations, Implied Self-Harm, Loss of time, Manic Episodes, Mental Anguish, Mental Breakdown, Mental Exhaustion, Mental Instability, Questioning, Repressed Memories, Solipsism Syndrome, Struggling With Reality, White Makes an Informal Appearance, imposter syndrome, old works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 07:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8739700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megane/pseuds/Megane
Summary: What makes this day different from so many others? Ah, perhaps in this one Black feels a deep pain that goes beyond time and his very senses.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Revamp/slight retouch to [the original _One of Those Days_](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11504719/1/One-of-Those-Days) fic on FF.net.
> 
> Dee actually [drew a companion picture](http://greyismanga.tumblr.com/post/129008798462) to go along with this story.

Black twiddled his thumbs as he laid on his stomach. He was restless, and nothing was speaking to him. Inspiration was far away on some high mountain he couldn't hope to climb. He had papers strewn about – failed diary entries that meant nothing and contained little. He was breaking apart.

With nothing to keep him distracted, his mind started pulling old memories forward. Were they really his? Were they real? Were they _really_ real? He wondered. He wondered over and over again, tossing the mess about in his head, trying to evoke some answer that continuously evaded him. But the lack of answers was starting to get to him – or maybe it had gotten to him long ago. Just like his memories, he was just backlogged, and the reality of it all was just now hitting him full force.

_"Don't you get it…? This is eating you up inside! Get away from this."_

That's what White had said. Countless times, White had said it. And Black had listened. He moved forward; he got away, but at what cost? "This" was always something new, something different to run away from. It was possible that Black was missing the great threat of whatever "this" was, but god help him if he could figure out what it was!

His wordless thoughts grew in volume, and suddenly, he felt uncomfortable in his own skin. He flexed his arms, trying to ignore the creep just under his flesh, on the inside of his arms. He writhed in discomfort. It was too much to bear! He sat up onto his knees, staring down at the diary entries. A whispering grew in his head; the doubt became palpable and heavy. He could almost taste it, and it made his stomach churn. He turned around and was swiftly on his back. His nails scratched against his skin as he tried to make sense

of his mind

        of his memories

               of what he lost…

There was something there; he could feel it, but he was tired of reaching deep. He was tired of trying pull out whatever horrible memory taunted him with its presence. He was tired of  _acknowledging_ it, even though it would never fully resurface— but he needed to dive into himself. But he needed that memory. He wanted it out! He wanted to look at it, _evaluate_ it. He needed to keep it from tearing it up inside even more than it already had.

It was hatred from long ago, buried deep down but it was spreading through him like a thorny vine. It was nameless; the source of this emotion had been long forgotten, but the emotion was fresh– alive. Black wanted to pick himself down to the bone.

        _Would it be worth it?_ some heinous voice whispered to him. 

The voice was amused; he wasn't. Would it be worth it? Did he care? If it got that hatred out of him, should he care…?! Black ripped his hands away from his skin and covered his face with both hands. He let out some choked noise. It wasn't a scream. It wasn't a sob. It was something that just spilled up from beneath his memories. His chest clenched; he dug the heel of his palms against his eyes until he could see black spotted against his already dark vision.

It was out…

He felt slightly better.

His door clicked open. Black lowered his hands and blinked through the spottiness. What… time was it? He reached for his phone where it was, but the words left his mouth without him ever notice.

       "It's eight," a familiar, friendlier voice told him.

He stared up at the ceiling. The morning filtered into his curtained room, and he just felt weak. Somehow… Somehow, he had made it. It was hard to say that he "woke up", but he passed through minuteless time feeling less heavier, less restless. Unfortunately, his mind was still bogged down. He could hardly pick himself up from under  _that_ weight. The mental rubble that had piled on top of him and left him feeling bare down to his very soul. 

        "I can hardly get out of bed," he whimpered. He felt the bed shift beside him. Black covered his eyes again with lighter hands. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry."

He knew he had lost track of time. When he was lost in that dismal vortex of his mind, hours became nothing. This day was just one of many that just stretched on and on for many memories.


End file.
